


Pomander

by garrideb



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garrideb/pseuds/garrideb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time after CA:TWS, Bucky is still hiding away, trying to piece his life back together.  A restless walk on a snowy December day brings him closer to home than he could have hoped. </p><p>Contains no spoilers or speculation for either Age of Ultron or Civil War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pomander

Bucky Barnes wanders through the city most nights.

Now that he's got his own mind back, he should feel purposeful. He's a puppet with his strings cut. He needs to build a life. Make up for all the time he's lost. Get revenge. Pay penance. 

Instead he wanders. Mostly late at night and pre-dawn, when New York City is at its quietest. He can't sleep when it's too quiet, so he sleeps during the day. The noise of the street outside his hotel window is comforting. It reminds him of the city before the war, before everything.

But today he can't sleep, not even with the water pipes screaming like dying rats, and the young couple in the room above him screaming like the water pipes. It's the lullaby of his free life and it should put him at ease, but his heart keeps racing and his gut churns until his whole mouth tastes sour. He can't do this. He can't stay cooped up for one more minute. He grabs his coat and hits the bricks.

It's snowing outside. Lightly, just a dusting of white that'll soon turn gray. 

It's the late afternoon. The sun has just set, although it's hard to tell the difference with the thick clouds diffusing the light, and the glow of the street lamps reflecting off of the snow. It's the kind of softly lit sky that makes time feel unfixed. 

He should see if there's any work for him. He's been running messages -- and occasionally unmarked packages -- for the owner of the hotel in exchange for his room and board. Bucky's lack of fear and lack of a name has been useful. But he can't keep doing this indefinitely. He needs to do something more.

But for now all he wants to do is wander. 

He should reach out to Steve. But what if Steve wants him to step out of the shadows? Bucky doesn't know if he's ready. 

At this time of day there are plenty of crowds on the sidewalks. He doesn't like being around so many people, but it does make it easy to blend in. He trails directly behind a small group for several blocks, until they suddenly turn and go down a steep set of stairs to a basement door. Bucky glances up. It's some kind of community center. There's a homemade sign decked out in a strand of multicolored lights that proclaims: Holiday Craft Sale.

Bucky shrugs and follows them down. His fingers are starting to go numb anyway, so he might as well warm up indoors. No use in risking the hand he's still got.

Once the door shuts behind him it's very warm. The large basement is brightly lit, with rows of tables and stalls selling everything from holiday cards to fruit cake. It's crowded, but the aisles are wide enough that people are moving freely. It doesn't feel claustrophobic, so Bucky starts browsing the stalls and blending in. 

He isn't really looking at the products, but a glass ornament catches his eye anyway. It's a star in shades of red, white, and blue that swirl together like the colors on a spinning pinwheel. Bucky can't decide if he likes it or if it makes his chest hurt. He tears his eyes away.

The cheerfully-grinning woman behind the table sports a shirt that reads, "Glassblowing is hot!" Everything on the table is made of delicate, graceful glass -- more ornaments, stemware, pendants, and even a few menorahs. The glassblower must have caught him staring, because she picks up the star and holds it closer to the light, making the red, white, and blue glow. "I make all of these myself," she tells him. "One of a kind."

He nods and moves on before he's tempted to look at the price tag. 

There are ceramics at the next stall, and then the next one has hats and mittens. He looks down at his own plain black gloves, wondering how incongruous it would be to hide his cold metal hand under bright fleece patterned with snowflakes and penguins. 

He reaches the end of the aisle and turns down the next, catching the scent of hot spiced punch… and for moment he's flashing back to the Christkindlmarkt in Vienna, trailing a mark through the crowds of shoppers and tourists while the smell of Glühwein wafts through the crisp December air. 

"Are you all right?"

Bucky realizes he's stopped dead in his tracks. His heart is galloping on the heels of a sudden adrenaline rush. But he's not at the Rathausplatz, and he has no orders to kill anyone. 

"Young man?"

He looks down. There's an elderly woman seated behind a selection of holiday candies and nuts. 

She gives him a stern once-over. "You look pale as a ghost. Sit down." She gestures at the folding chair next to hers.

If he felt any steadier he would say he was fine and leave, in fact that's what all his instincts are screaming at him to do, which is why he fights them down and sits next to the old lady. He can't trust his instincts after years of Hydra conditioning. He's got to look at this rationally. He's safe here, or as safe as he can be in public in New York City. He might as well take a moment to collect himself.

Besides, people'll think he's this woman's grandson. It's a great cover. 

In fact, she's probably twenty years his junior, but… well, cryogenics, right? Age is relative. He feels young next to her as she reaches out a wrinkled hand and picks up a thermos.

"Coffee?" She asks. 

He shakes his head. "I'm-- ah, trying to cut back on caffeine," which isn't even much of a lie. He's been trying to avoid all stimulants and sedatives, even the common ones like alcohol and caffeine. He's so messed up and he just wants to find some kind of baseline that he can consider normal for his body. It's slow going. 

She laughs. "My doctor wants me to give it up because of my beta blockers, but I can't. Coffee is doing more to keep me running than metoprolol."

Bucky thinks he likes this lady. Goodwill towards his fellow man has been long dormant in his soul, and for good reason. But it turns out he's still capable of feeling warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. So when she introduces herself as Gertrude, he gives his real name: James.

"Of course, as a business woman," she tells him with a grin, "I hope a lot of people come here with cash burning a hole in their pockets. But it's also nice to see people come in just to get out of the cold. Margaret stopped letting me run the hot chocolate stand because I gave away as much as I sold. Oh, she told me it was because she was worried about me standing so much, but that's a load of bull."

Bucky imagines her working the soup kitchens in the years before the war. There were some truly remarkable volunteers who managed to break through the acidic cast of shame and despair in the breadline. Coax out a smile or two. Foster a sense of brotherhood, if only for an hour. He bets Gertrude would have been one of them.

She continues. "I have to admit my motives aren't entirely pure. If I ply enough people with hot drinks and cookies, I can usually find someone to help with clean-up. It only takes about an hour, starting at 8 o'clock, and you get twenty dollars and whatever treats you want off my table."

Hell, that's a more productive use for his evening than he had planned. "Should I schedule an interview?"

She laughs. "Consider yourself hired! Take a bag of peanut brittle already. You still look pale. Plus it's good for business when customers see us enjoying the sweets; makes them look irresistibly good! Half the things here are too chewy for my dentures though, so you'll have to step up."

Bucky dutifully reaches for the peanut brittle, but the bright basket of oranges call to him. She did tell him to take anything, and the oranges look delicious. It's a bit of a trick to peel it with his glove still on his left hand, but he's pretty adept at doing precision work with his metal fingers covered. Gertrude doesn't say anything about it if she notices, but she does comment on his choice of treat. 

"I remember some Christmases from my childhood where an orange was my favorite gift. I'd get a quarter, an orange, and some small toy or maybe a new dress for my doll. We never got oranges the rest of the year."

Bucky smiles. Gertrude would never guess how similar their childhood Christmas gifts were. "I got an orange and a peppermint stick in my stocking. I'd always use the stick like a straw and suck the juice out of the orange."

You'd think he just gave her the blueprints to a better mousetrap, from her expression of delight. "That's a wonderful idea! I'll have to get some peppermint sticks next year. I bet if I'm sipping on an orange like that, sales'll go through the roof."

He chuckles at the image, then concentrates on pulling out a wedge of orange. 

The sweet citrus tang of the orange brings him right back to the holidays. He knows he's lived years and years in-between the war and now, but they feel insubstantial. It's easy to believe that it was less than a decade ago when he was a child in the twenties and thirties. He remembers his parents and rambunctious siblings all crowded around the table for Christmas dinner. Steve would join them later on, after his mother had died. There wasn't really room but they made room anyway.

"Bucky."

He can practically hear Steve's voice. No, he can hear Steve's voice. Bucky stares at the orange in confusion and then with growing fear he raises his eyes. 

Steve is standing there. Right across the table. The stream of holiday shoppers move past him, as if the world hasn't just stopped for Bucky. 

"What--" He doesn't understand. He's been careful. He's been a ghost, and he's good at that. "How--" he tries.

Steve holds up his phone. He looks… a bit sheepish, honestly. As if tracking down the world's stealthiest assassin is slightly embarrassing. "I have a friend who has a booth here. There are a few people who I trust. Outside of SHIELD, you know? And I've shown them your picture. My friend Bernie texted me when she recognized you. But I had no reason to believe you'd still be here. I barely hoped…"

Bucky's heart is going double time. He wasn't ready for this. 

Gertrude's hand is suddenly on his arm. "I can call security," she says softly. 

He shakes his head.

"I won't tolerate someone bothering my employee," she insists, somewhat louder. Bucky realizes that she's seriously on the verge of kicking Steve Rogers out of a community center basement in Brooklyn. He'd laugh if he didn't feel on the verge of panic.

"No," Bucky finds his voice. "Gertrude, this is Steve. He's a friend."

The smile Steve flashes at that is brighter than all the lights in the room combined. It's like he just gave the world to Steve. He remembers getting that exact same damn floodlight of a smile when they were kids. It was always easy to give the world to Steve back then. Maybe that hasn't changed. 

Steve shakes Gertrude's hand with a respectful, "ma'am." 

"Captain," she responds. 

It's starting to sink in that no one is coming to collect him. He breaths a little easier. "I can't go with you right now," he tells Steve. "I'm helping with cleanup here."

Steve nods as if craft fair cleanup is a perfectly reasonable job for the Winter Soldier. "I could give you my number? It's a secure line. Some-- uh, non-SHIELD friends helped with that, too."

Steve isn't going to pressure him. The last of Bucky's anxiety is fading, like a vice being loosened in the muscles of his neck and shoulders. "That… that would be nice."

Steve scribbles a number on the back of a card and hands it to Bucky. Then he looks around, somewhat helpless, obviously reluctant to leave and unsure how to say goodbye.

Gertrude nudges Bucky and glances significantly at the oranges, then back at Steve. The message is clear. He picks up an orange and holds it out to Steve. "I'll try to call you tomorrow."

And there's that blinding smile again. Steve's hand is warm as it brushes his. He holds the orange like a treasure. "Thank you."

Bucky carefully doesn't watch him leave, but when he looks up a few minutes later, the area where Steve was standing still seems strangely illuminated. And even though he hadn't been sure when he'd said it, he knows that he will make that phone call tomorrow, even if it's just to wish Steve a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. 

He's always made room for Steve for the holidays.


End file.
